Ma Schmidt may be dying

Last fall I wrote about visiting the Schmidts. I wrote about how little it seemed that I was engaging with Schmidt himself, and wondered if this was a sign of a slow, long-term rift silently widening between us.

Well maybe, but it’s nothing special. I’m back there now—at his request—because Ma Schmidt (his mother) appears to be dying.

Last fall she was ditzier than I remember her having been before (though she was always a little spacy), and her short-term memory was almost completely gone. That is, she could put food on the stove and remember it was there to finish cooking it. But she would ask me questions about where I live or whether I have any siblings, seemingly unaware that she had already asked me the exact same questions two minutes before. Back then she talked about being “older than dirt,” but she was still in good health and walking around.

Towards the beginning of this week, Schmidt emailed Marie and me that he was concerned about his mother. She had come down with a bug a while ago, and at this point she was mostly bed-bound. He also said that looking after her was really taking all his time and attention. I asked if he wanted an extra set of hands, since I don’t hold a job and have no-one depending on me. He demurred for a few hours or a day—I later learned that he was discussing it with Marie privately—and then accepted. With gratitude. 

It’s about a one-day drive from my apartment to their farm (somewhere between 500-600 miles), and yesterday I drove it. I arrived before sundown. Schmidt thanked me again, although I hadn’t actually done anything except show up. But I think the moral support may have counted for something.

She started today poorly. She couldn’t get herself from her bed to the bathroom, and so wet her pants. She wouldn’t accept my help but Schmidt then helped her to the toilet, helped her wipe herself, got her clean pants, and helped her back to bed. In the afternoon we drove her to the hospital, partly so they could evaluate her and Schmidt could get a doctor’s order for hospice or home health care. It took both of us several minutes to maneuver her into the car, and then to maneuver her out again at the far end. But after we were there for—what was it, maybe six hours?—the hospital said she was more or less fine, just underfed and dehydrated. They gave her a couple of IV’s of fluid and electrolytes, and sent her on her way. On the way back she was much perkier than usual, though she still couldn’t carry on a conversation more than a few minutes without repeating questions like, “Why do we have to go to the store on the way home?” (Answer: because Schmidt and I are both hungry, and don’t want to have to be bothered fixing dinner when we get back.)

So we got home and put her to bed. Schmidt took care of his many cats (and one geriatric dog). Then finally we sat down to our still-vaguely-warm rotisserie chicken from the store, plus a salad I’d made while he was doing all that other stuff. We chatted companionably enough and went off to our respective beds.

    

Marie receives the Five Mindfulness Trainings

A day I never thought I'd see.

I've mentioned that sometimes—fitfully and irregularly—Marie will visit by Zoom the UU Sangha that I attend regularly here in town. She tells me she enjoys it, but she'll skip if she thinks she hasn't been living up to Buddhist principles lately. (Wait, isn't that like saying you won't go to church as long as you are still sinning? But I'm sure most churches would tell you that's exactly the time you should show up!)

The last few weeks we've had a guest joining us while he's temporarily in town, who is a Certified Dharma Teacher in the Plum Village tradition of Thích Nhất Hạnh. This means that—among other things—he has the authority to transmit the Five Mindfulness Trainings to aspirants who want to receive them formally. (This ritual isn't quite the one he used, but close enough.) "Receiving the Five Mindfulness Trainings" sounds simple enough. But it commits you to recite or repeat them once a month, and to live by them as far as you can. Anyway, a couple of weeks ago he announced that he would be willing to transmit the Trainings while he was in town, if anyone was interested. Last week we watched a video about living with them, and tonight was scheduled for the ceremony of transmission.

I didn't really expect Marie to take up the offer, but she was interested. So we talked about it a little: what's the difference between formally receiving the Trainings and just knowing about them? I pointed out that when you receive the Trainings formally, you accept an obligation to repeat them once a month—preferably in company with a sangha—and to try to live by them, although it is understood that your compliance may not be 100%. How much difference does the commitment make? I reminded her of the conversation between Elrond and Gimli, during the Council of Elrond, as they assemble the group of Nine Walkers who will accompany the Ring south. Elrond says that everyone is going freely, and no one has any oath laid upon him except only Frodo (not to give up the Ring to the Enemy). Right away, Gimli objects:

‘Faithless is he that says farewell when the road darkens,’ said Gimli.

‘Maybe,’ said Elrond, ‘but let him not vow to walk in the dark, who has not seen the nightfall.’

‘Yet sworn word may strengthen quaking heart,’ said Gimli.

‘Or break it,’ said Elrond. 'Look not too far ahead.'

My cough is getting better, 2

I almost hate to say anything, lest I jinx the progress I've made. So take it as read that I'm knocking wood as I write.

I attended Sangha in person this evening, and noticed that my cough was much attenuated even from last week. Last week was better than the week before. And really it's only been in the last month that I have felt I could attend Sangha in person (rather than by Zoom) because my coughing has not been as rat-a-tat insistent as it was in (let's say) November.

That doesn't mean my allergies are all gone, and of course it might get worse tomorrow. But I want to record this as a marker, so I can try to estimate how long these bouts last. This one started in mid-October, and it is now four months later. Another bout that I bothered to track here started in January 2020, and I noticed it getting better in April. What's that, then? About four months, each time, from beginning to "wow, I think it's starting to improve"? (But not all the way gone yet, in either case.)

Fair enough. At least it's a number. Maybe next bout, I can use it to set my expectations.

  

Hosea's island

"There is a bittersweet loneliness in the life of an exile that exerts a romantic appeal to many people. They see themselves as a mysterious figure on a Mediterranean island, seen by all, known to few, living a life of intense privacy in full view. The problem with such a life is that it cannot sustain trust; the very essence of exile is the belief that one can only really count on oneself."*

Was Roger Ebert writing about me? He might have been. I'm not sure how "romantic" my life is (and of course I don't live on a Mediterranean island) but the rest of it fits: intense privacy, known to few. And a lack of trust, for sure.

But "exile"? Maybe, in a sense. When I was very little, my parents were graduate students and they rented houses from professors on sabbatical. That meant we moved every year. Then my dad got a teaching job clear across the country (so we moved) … which he hated (so he looked for another job right away and we moved again). When I was a few months shy of my sixth birthday, we moved abroad, to another country. There I met a girlfriend (but then we moved) … and then finally we landed in a house where we stayed for five years. A neighborhood where I could ride my bicycle for hours and learn all the streets. A place where I could begin to put down roots. Not that I was ever fully rooted there—already I kept to myself the knowledge that we were Americans, because Americans weren't always popular in this new country. Also my parents sometimes smoked pot, which in those days was illegal both in that country and back home. So I had to be careful how much I told my friends about my family. I had to draw lines, and compartmentalize my world. But on the whole I felt like I belonged there.

Nothing ever lasts. When I was a few months shy of my twelfth birthday we moved back to the United States. At the time I believed the move was only temporary: I no longer remember if my parents said that explicitly, or if I just chose to believe it. But this time they bought a house, instead of just renting it. It's the same house Mother still lives in today. So no, the move wasn't temporary.

So it was another exile. Another layer. And then my eccentric interests and bookishness added more layers on top of that. You've heard all this before. (I realized after starting this post that I've said it all before here and here. Maybe elsewhere too, but those will do for a start.)   

But I did want to capture that quote from Roger Ebert.

__________

* From Roger Ebert's review of "Pascali's Island," August 12, 1988, reprinted on RegerEbert.com. 

Enemies everywhere

I talked with Son 2 today, for something like an hour and a half. You remember that he just got his Master's degree. And now he's got a job, working for a Big Employer. So we started talking about practical stuff, like which health plan should he sign up for? Then I asked him about his work, and he told me a lot about what he does. Finally I asked him about a concern that I've been brooding on for a couple of months now, more or less ever since I visited in December. Turns out he's been worried about it too.

A little background will help. Back after Son 2 got his bachelor's degree—he graduated in May 2020, right smack into the beginning of the COVID-19 pandemic—he couldn't find a regular job because everything had shut down. But he finally got an internship in his field of specialty, working for a woman I'll call the Professora. They got along really well; and while they never did anything flagrantly unprofessional (by which I mean they didn't fuck, or at least not as far as I know), nonetheless they soon became friends. The Professora invited Son 2 to have dinner at her house, where he met her two sons. (She's a single mom, as well as a professional.) Occasionally they sat up drinking whiskey together. It went on like that.

But not for long, because soon the Professora left that job. She landed at a big university, instead. Fast-forward two years, and she had a graduate student leave her in the lurch even though she had a fully-funded research project. So she called Son 2, and asked him if he wanted to go to graduate school. You've heard this story before.

Son 2 enrolled in graduate school, and the Professora was his advisor. Which was fine for a few months until she got fired from the University. I should emphasize that her firing had nothing to do with her competence. Everyone agreed that she knows her subject deeply, and that she is passionately committed to it. Her ability and her commitment were never in question. And yet, she was fired—probably because of some squalid departmental intrigue. 

In the kerfluffle that followed, Son 2 kept his grants and fellowships and program because nobody thought it was his fault. He was reassigned to another professor who was friendly but really didn't understand his research. He continued to meet once a week with the Professora, who continued to guide his research. Meanwhile she got a job with Big Employer. (Maybe you can tell where this story is going.)

Wrapping up last year

I keep thinking I should write something about the last … gosh, I guess three months of last year. I keep not wanting to do it. Not that there's anything bad about it. I just can't summon the energy.

This is an omnibus post. The only common theme is that I'm too lazy to break it out into multiple different posts. Or maybe I should say that empirically I have already observed a strong tendency not to write it. So tonight I figured, "Better to get it all written than to worry about the details." I count 14 different tags or labels on this post right now. Maybe I'll add more later. That should be a sign that it really does tell multiple stories.

October

Actually I guess I've already talked about a lot of it. In October I traveled to visit Debbie for a week, and we went on a silent meditation retreat. (The retreat lasted just a weekend, so we also spent time visiting her family.) Then I flew on to another town where Marie was attending a conference. I appeared with her at the big dinner, as arm candy, and otherwise wandered around town while she attended multiple sessions. I think I talked about this trip in this post here. (See also this one, for a slice of life around Debbie's family.)

November

In November, Mother and I joined Brother and SIL in driving all day to visit family in another state over, for Thanksgiving. I talk about some parts of that trip in this post here. There were other parts of the visit as well, but I don't remember anything so important that I need to remember it or write about it. Stan was better behaved than he was five years ago, and easily distracted with Monty Python routines. This time it was his little sister who was the terror, but not as destructively.

Your children are not you

I was talking with Debbie a couple of weeks ago, and she was telling me with sorrow about how things are going in their house. (You remember that she lives with her daughter Mattie, with Mattie's husband R., and with their two little boys—Debbie's grandsons.) There have been other conflicts before, but many of the longest-lasting frictions seems to be related to the ways that Mattie and R. raise their children. Of course Debbie says that she understands it's none of her business and she has to back away. But it all makes her very sad.

Mattie and R. appear to be very demanding parents. But I'm sure they would never believe themselves to be cruel. They are good liberals in many of the most stereotypical ways, so I'm sure they think that parental cruelty is Something Bad that Other People do. I'm sure they just think that they just have high standards.

Fine, but are they cruel, in reality? I haven't observed enough to be sure. But you can ask other questions that help delineate that space. For example: ….

Are they dogmatic? Absolutely. 

Inflexible? No question. 

Tyrannical? We only use that word for people who are inflexible about Bad Things; as long as they are Our Sort of people, we prefer to call them "reliable" or "committed." Or to put it another way, I'm sure Debbie would go to great lengths to deny that Mattie and R. are actually tyrannical. It would be easy for me to say it, because they're not my family. What's odd is that I don't get the idea that this tyranny is intentional for them. It feels to me more like they just honestly can't imagine that there is any other way to do things than the way they are doing them.

And this brings me to my title. I think parents are often guided (in their parenting) by introspection. How would I feel if my parent did that to/for me? But this is a poor metric to use, because your children are not you!